


tossing pennies in the pool

by peterpan_in_neverland



Series: lyrically inclined [2]
Category: Never Have I Ever (TV)
Genre: F/M, an ode to first love, based on "the 1" by Taylor Swift, i tried something and it didnt work but im leaving it anyway, post breakup fic, this is really bad towards the end
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-04
Updated: 2020-10-04
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:46:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26818312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peterpan_in_neverland/pseuds/peterpan_in_neverland
Summary: “What am I supposed to say to her?” Devi starts, offense leaking into her voice, unbidden, “hi, Jamie, I know it’s been awhile and I don’t live in California anymore, so I should technically be calling local therapists, but I figured you should know that any bets you were making on my relationship with Paxton should be called in now, because we broke up— oh, and, my goldfish died, but that’s neither here nor there— anyway, I hope you didn’t have a personal stake in my recovery, because you are about to be majour league disappointed, girl—”--OR; in the wake of Devi's breakup with Paxton, she attempts to figure out who she is
Relationships: Paxton Hall-Yoshida/Devi Vishwakumar
Series: lyrically inclined [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1909363
Comments: 5
Kudos: 19





	tossing pennies in the pool

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cori_the_bloody](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cori_the_bloody/gifts).



> Hi, wow, I'm not dead! It's been a bit, but I'm here with a new fic, my first ever Devi/Paxton (daxton? pevi?) fic ever. I have nothing else to say other than (1) Cori I love you my dear, thank you for encouraging me and taking my endless snippets with grace and (2) this fic is genuinely so bad, please, dear reader, do not get your hopes up

**“I’m doing good,** I swear,” Devi says, futility marring the syllables. She _knows_ Kamala won’t believe her, no matter what she says. Ending a seven year long relationship does that, apparently, and Kamala’s overeager sister tendencies are getting in the way of her moving on. 

Not that she really hasn’t, already. 

“Are you sure, Devi? Because I can beat him up,” Kamala insists, her voice rising an octave, the way it always does when she is making an offer before thinking it through.

Devi snorts, and rolls her eyes, even though Kamala can't see her. “You could _not_ beat Paxton up,” Devi tells her, and hears a melodic, defeated sigh from the other end of the phone.

“Probably not.” 

_“Definitely_ not.” 

“Okay, you’re right, definitely not,” Kamala giggles, and it makes Devi’s shoulders relax. She loves her cousin, and, sometimes, it hurts her when she remembers all the time she spent hating her. “Are you sure you’re okay, _kanna?”_

“When do I get to grow out of that nickname?” Devi asks, skirting the question. “I’m twenty-three, I think it’s time to let it go.” 

“You will never grow out of it, _kanna,_ now answer the question.” 

“I promise I’m okay,” Devi says, trying to sound less annoyed than she really is, **“I’m on some new shit.”**

“Please tell me you do not mean drugs.” 

“No,” Devi says, automatically, “besides— and I mean this in the nicest way possible— I wouldn’t tell you if I was on drugs.” 

“You say that like you think I haven’t done drugs.” 

Instant suspicion blooms in her stomach. _“Have_ you done drugs, sweet, perfect, darling, rule following Kamala?” 

“You clearly did not go through my room at Nalini aunties house.” 

_“Kamala!”_ Devi shouts, disbelief and jealousy coursing through her. “What did you have?”

“Just a little bit of pot,” Kamala says, sounding embarrassed, her voice hushed and soft. 

“You hid pot at Nalini Vishwakumar’s house?” Devi asks, voice thick, standing up from her spot on her couch to pace. “And you didn’t share any with me?” 

“Stop using my bad habits to deflect from your breakup!” 

“Usually I _would_ use something like this to deflect from my breakup, but this is actual, straight up, for real wonderment.” 

“No, this is pure Devi deflection,” Kamala says, and Devi sighs, letting herself fall backwards onto the couch with a heavy thump. “Talk to me Devi, seriously.” 

**“I thought I saw him at the bus stop— I didn’t, though—** and it was stupid that I did because, y’know, he has a car.” 

“It’s not stupid.”

“It was kind of stupid.” 

“No,” Kamala says, the stern, supportive tone blending into less than sincere annoyance. “It is not stupid, because it is human, and humanity is not stupid.” 

“We are a _little_ stupid, though.”

Kamala sighs— _relenting,_ Devi thinks— and then clicks her tongue and whispers a soft scold in Tamil into the phone. “Sometimes. But it is never stupid to bond with other people. And to let those bonds linger.”

_Linger?_

Is Paxton lingering? It doesn’t seem like it, but… his hoodies are still on her coatrack and his toothbrush is still in her bathroom and, fuck, is her heart still in his hands— 

“— I have to go, Kamala,” she says, then hangs up, before she even gets a chance to say goodbye. 

She grabs the hoodies from her coat rack, shoves them deep into the back of her closet, and resolves to give them back to Paxton tomorrow.

* * *

**She hits the ground running each night.**

She cleans her apartment, top to bottom, in the span of two weekends, the citrus and chemical blend of Pledge cleaning spray floating out of open windows and sticking to her clothes— sticking to the hoodies crumpled on the closet floor— and making Eleanor wrinkle her nose when she pushes Devi’s front door open. 

“You’re avoidance cleaning,” she says, tucking her keys back into a bright yellow purse— and, seriously, Devi has to take the spare key away from her— and propping her hands on her hips, two of her fingers slipped into her belt loops. “It’s not healthy,” she practically sings it, dragging out the _e-a-l_ and _y._

“I am _not_ avoidance cleaning,” Devi says, pushing at her hair, and sparing a glance to a bucket of slightly grey mop water, “I’m just… post breakup cleaning.”

“Post breaking cleaning is when you burn sage and light candles, or something,” Eleanor argues, stepping daintily over a pile of clothes Devi had set out for donation dropoff, “not when you mop the ceilings.” 

“You are thinking of cleansing, El.”

“Tomato, tomato.” 

“They are extremely different, in practice,” Devi argues, then gives up after catching sight of the election of Eleanor’s eyebrows. 

“You’re not processing the breakup.” 

“I so am… through cleaning.” 

“Through cleaning?” Eleanor repeats, drama in her voice. Eleanor has always been able to evoke emotion easily, showing her feelings through the set of her shoulders or in the hollow of her cheeks. “Really? Pine Sol is how you’re expressing yourself?” 

Devi wrinkles her nose. “Ew, no— Pine Sol smells gross.” 

“You can get different scents,” Eleanor says, and Devi thrills, excited that she can still distract Eleanor so easily, “like lavender, and citrus. There’s even a stupid fresh breeze kind of scent.”

“Do you think that’s where Febreze got their company’s name from?” 

Eleanor narrows her eyes. “Yes, now stop getting me off topic. We were talking about you, and your breakup.” 

Devi heaves a sigh. “The lotus is the flower of India, did you know that?” 

“Yes, and the flower of California is a poppy,” Eleanor says, and reaches for Devi’s mop. Devi fights with her, struggling over it— Eleanor is strong, apparently, muscle mass built up from Broadway routines and a set of multicoloured weights in the corner of Eleanor’s bedroom— before Eleanor shouts, “just give me the fucking mop, Vishwakumar!”

“Fine!” Devi lets go of it, and Eleanor stumbles backwards, righting herself before huffing loudly and tossing the mop to the side. “Why do you care so much?”

Eleanor glows red. _Angry._ “Because,” she says clearly, nostrils flared, “I am your friend.”

“I’m okay, El, seriously,” Devi says, all the fight going out of her when she sits back down. “I mean— I’ve definitely been _better,_ but, I think I’m happier.”

“Think?” Eleanor sits down next to her, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. Devi lifts her hand up to slip her fingers in between Eleanor’s, holding her hand, enjoying the way Eleanor idly rubs her thumb against Devis skin. Paxton had never held her hand like that, and it hits Devi, a little bit, how wrong they were for each other. 

“I just need some time,” Devi sighs, closing her eyes softly and pressing herself closer into Eleanor’s skin, like her bright colours and big personality can absorb her completely and heal all her wounds. 

“Do you want to get out of here?” Eleanor suggests. **“Hit the Sunday matinee?”**

“I don’t know, El…”

“It could be good for you.” 

She bites her lip. Sighs. Closes her eyes tighter. Eleanor smells sunshine and strawberries. “I just want to stay here— right here.” 

Eleanor sighs, high pitched and girly and happy, like she is content, right here, breathing Devi in and running her fingers along her skin. “Very well, it probably wouldn’t have been worth it, anyway. **You know, the greatest films of all time were never made.”**

Devi chuckles. Of _course_ Eleanor would think that. “Whatever you say, El. Whatever you say.”

Eleanor is quiet, sitting softly— Devi and Fabiola used to think that Eleanor floated, everywhere she went, before they got to know her; she always seemed to be on top of a cloud, like she was daintier than everyone else, hollow boned, like a bird— when she whispers, “write him a letter.” 

Devi sits up, dropping her hand from Eleanor’s and turning to face her, brow furrowed. “What did you just say?” 

“Write him a letter,” Eleanor repeats, cringing, scratching at her hairline, nervous habit, “I just, y’know, I think it would be… useful, to your… healing process.” 

“A letter?” Devi echoes, incredulous, wrapping her arms around herself, as if her cardigan and her bones can protect her. 

“It might help.” Eleanor is smart, something unassuming, intelligence that sneaks up on you. Devi can remember Eleanor whispering up from her sleeping bag, on Devi's bedroom floor, at three am five years ago, _sometimes, being underestimated is better— I like the element of surprise,_ and Devi has carried that with her. Eleanor is all the glow of a neon sign with all the practicality of fluorescent light bulbs. “Like… help you process everything, with Paxton.” 

Devi digs her fingers into the wool of her cardigan. **“I guess you never know,”** she whispers, and watches Eleanor smile, the corners of her mouth planting into her cheeks and blossoming into dimples. 

“I’m proud of you, Devi,” Eleanor says, pulls her into her chest, arms wrapping around Devi’s back, tight, all the allure of inopportune daydreams. 

* * *

She is not good at writing letters. 

She starts it over and over, _dear Paxton,_ loopy cursive, ink staining the page. Her handwriting has gotten more precise since high school, less shaking, professional. 

It is not the only thing about her that has changed.

**_We were something, don’t you think so?_ **she writes, then shuts the notebook viciously and turns around from her desk, pulling the door of her closet open and yanking a box from the back. 

_Paxton H-Y_

“This is a bad idea,” she whispers, and opens it anyway.

* * *

_Halloween, 2024_

_Sherman Oaks, California_

_“You borrowed the dress from Eleanor,” Paxton says, a sly smile on his face, his hands sitting lightly on her hips. She has one of Eleanor’s flapper dresses on, wine red and sparkling. “Don’t lie.”_

_“Mmm,” she hums, twisting her index finger in the soft hairs that curl on the back of his neck, “would it be a deal breaker if I did?”_

_“That depends,” he whispers, and leans in, resting his cheeks against hers, “would she let you keep it?”_

_“For a premium of ten gazillion dollars, maybe,” she answers, and leans into him, looking over his shoulder at the people floating around the party— Fabiola and Eve are chatting animatedly and Ben has Shira pushed into a corner, his lips on her neck. “I think my rights to borrow it are uninhibited, though.”_

_“Good,” he whispers. Kisses her neck. Hums into her skin. “Hey.”_

_“Yeah,” she whispers back, slipping her hands underneath of his suspenders, dancing her fingers over the fabric of his button down. They had decided, last minute, to match costumes, and had decided on_ **_roaring twenties,_ ** _and he looks unfairly handsome, messy curls and a shirt that fits perfectly— even if he is still wearing the same worn out Chuck Taylors._

_“I love you, Little D,” he says, into the skin of her neck, and it makes her heart go fluttery. He has never said it like that,_ I _and_ love _and_ you _all strung together. It has always been_ love you, love you too, love you, girl, _it has never been_ I. 

_She lets the excitement melt into her blood._

_“I love you too, Big P.”_

* * *

“Are you writing that letter that Eleanor mentioned?” Fabiola asks, licking an ice cream cone, her eyebrows pushed up her forehead. 

“Writing it, contemplating it, astral projecting it,” Devi lists, grinding a sesame seed from her hamburger bun in between her teeth, “summoning a ghost to write it for me.” 

“Devi,” Fabiola scolds softly, looking down at her through her coils of hair, “why are you avoiding it?”

“Honestly, I… I don’t know, Fabiola,” Devi admits, and sighs, leaning backwards in the passenger seat of Fabiolas car. She pulls the seat adjustment lever until she is lying completely flat, staring at the fuzz of the ceiling. Fabiola has always seemed to prefer older, beat up mom type of cars over sleek, shiny, brand new fresh from the dealer type of cars. She has an old Buick, now, that smells like Chanel No. 5 and shoe polish, and Devi longs to know the story that left that scent behind.

“Tell me what you do know, then,” Fabiola suggests, and pushes her seat down, too, looking across the center console at Devi. Fabiola has become more herself than ever since graduating and moving to the city. She grew two more inches and shaved the underneath of her hair and has recently blossomed a love for bell bottom jeans. 

“I don’t _want_ to be dating him, not anymore,” Devi says, and saying it out loud, stringing her thoughts into syllables, feels like bench pressing the sun, “but I don’t… I just, it feels… _wrong.”_

“Wrong how?”

Devi sours. 

“Nevermind,” she says, and closes her eyes, and Fabiola whines. Devi hears her shift, and Fabiola pushes at her face, squishing her fingers against her cheeks. 

“Look at me, Devi, c’mon,” Fabiola pleads, and she cracks an eye open, just to humour her. “Dammit, Devi, I will get Gears Brosnan and write a code for him to pry your eyes open, don’t test me.”

“Fine,” Devi relents, turning to face her and opening both eyes, blowing a wave of hair from her face. 

“Why does it feel wrong,” Fabiola says, not a question, more like a prompt, a Mad-Lib, a fill in the blank. 

“Pass.”

_“Vishwakumar.”_

“I don’t know how to be myself without him, okay?” Devi answers, and watches as Fabiolas face wilts into a frown. “I’ve been with him since I was… fifteen, I think I started to revolve around him. **If my wishes came true, it would’ve been him.** But now, it’s like, did I lose out on things for him? _Because_ of him?” 

“Oh, Devi,” Fabiola worries, and smooths a hand over Devi’s hair, like she is unsure of how to comfort her, how to soothe her. Eleanor is better at this, better at comforting and talking her down, assuaging her worries. Fabiola, though, is better at getting her to talk about it, to parse out her feelings, lay them out on the table like playing cards. 

Maybe it is a curse.

“It’s stupid. It’s _so_ stupid, such an idiotic first world problem.” 

“First world problems are still problems, Devi,” Fabiola tells her, lightly scolding, “just because you aren’t, like… _dying_ doesn’t mean you aren’t still struggling. The UN doesn’t have to interfere in order for your problems to become important.” 

“You know, the UN doesn’t always interfere—” 

“You do that a lot,” Fabiola says, frowning— all of Fabiolas features are soft, smooth cheeks and a rounded nose, her smile, even, like a sanded down half circle— and poking a finger into Devi’s cheek, softly, “interrupt people trying to be supportive with some random fact. It’s not healthy.” 

“Neither are French fries.” 

_“Devi.”_

“Fine,” she relents, and rolls over, so she is lying flat, staring at the ceiling. What is it that Fabiola calls her car? Ivy? “I’ll deal with it. I started the letter, I just… don’t know where to go with it.” 

“Maybe you could call Dr Ryan?” 

Devi snorts. “Dr Ryan is doing great without me, actually, she has a wife and a dog— I follow her on Facebook— I really don’t think she needs me.” 

“While I’m thrilled that your therapist has a wife,” Fabiola starts, and tugs on a piece of Devi’s hair, “I really don’t think that’s how therapy works.” 

“What am I supposed to _say_ to her?” Devi starts, offense leaking into her voice, unbidden, “hi, Jamie, I know it’s been awhile and I don’t live in California anymore, so I should _technically_ be calling local therapists, but I figured you should know that any bets you were making on my relationship with Paxton should be called in now, because we broke up— oh, and, my goldfish died, but that’s neither here nor there— anyway, I hope you didn’t have a personal stake in my recovery, because you are about to be majour league disappointed, girl—” 

Fabiola huffs, and flicks Devi on her forehead, making a soft _thunk_ noise. 

_“Ow,_ Fab, what the hell!” Devi puts a hand to her forehead, and locks eyes with Fabiola. She is scowling. 

“What is _wrong_ with you?” Fabiola exclaims, sitting up. 

“What’s wrong with _me?”_ Devi echoes, mimicking Fabiola and pulling herself upright. “What’s wrong with _you—_ I’m not the one flicking people for no reason!” 

“No rea— you were _spiraling,_ Devi!” Fabiola pushes on Devi’s shoulder, and Devi frowns, fighting the urge to shove her back. She curls her fingers, letting her nails bite into her palms. 

“No.” 

_“Yes,”_ Fabiola says, and leans forward, gripping Devi’s shoulders— for a fleeting moment, Devi thought Fabiola would hit her again, just to round out the rule of thirds— and locks eyes with her. “You aren’t you. I understand, Devi, I do, but please, _please_ call Dr Ryan. Please.” 

All the fight in her flies south for the winter. 

“Okay,” Devi says, and Fabiola nods, and she knows she will keep her promise. 

* * *

“You should’ve called sooner, girl,” Dr Ryan says, clicking her tongue. Devi had set up a video chat appointment, and Dr Ryan is clearly unimpressed with her thus far. 

**“In my defense—”**

“You have none,” Dr Ryan interrupts.

“.... yeah, **I have none.”**

“I think you’re making a good start by writing him a letter,” Dr Ryan says, folding one hand over the other, “but I think you’re making it more about him than about you.”

Devi wrinkles her brow and fights the urge to slam her laptop shut. “What?” 

“You keep thinkin’ about how you're not you without him,” Dr Ryan says, matter of fact, her voice soft, her tone concerned, supportive, gently disapproving, “instead of trying to _find_ you, without him.” 

“Oh.” 

“You’re a smart girl—” 

“Hell’s yeah, I am,” Devi interrupts, force of habit.

“I love that self confidence, Devi!” Dr Ryan says, and snaps her fingers. _“Use_ that. **_Never_ ** **leave well enough alone.”**

“Thanks, Dr Ryan,” Devi says, and smiles, “you know… you could still prescribe me some Klonopin.” 

Dr Ryan scoffs. “Girl, bye,” she says, and hangs up.

* * *

**_It would’ve been fun if you would’ve been the one,_ **she writes on a post it note, then frowns, and crumpled it up, shoving it into the back of her bottom desk drawer. 

* * *

The letter is sitting in front of her like an omen. 

She feels like it is taunting her, laughing, whispering about her in dark corners, _she does not know where she begins and ends, she is running down the halls like thread unwinding,_ and she has to curl her nails into her palms to prevent herself from ripping it into confetti. 

She sighs, and picks up the pad of paper, tapping her pen against the desk, a metronome beat too rapid for an orchestra to follow.

**_I have this dream you’re doing cool shit,_ ** she writes down, stares at it, tears a slit in the corner, just to placate the urge to shred it. _Are you still going to the coffee shop on second avenue? Dropping your change into Alberts guitar case? Calling Rebecca everyday, when you get home from work? Have you changed? You’re_ **_having adventures on your own,_ ** _now._

She twists the pen around her fingers, haunting momentum, second wind. The pen skates across the page— 

_Do you feel better without me? Maybe it’s stupid, but I miss talking to you. I don’t want to be with you, anymore— sorry, man, I just don’t— but I miss trading stories about the day. And you telling me about your dreams every morning, over coffee and toothpaste and your too small dining room table. You really need to buy a bigger one. I dont miss your laundry, though. I'm just trying to figure out who I am without you._

**_You know,_ ** she writes, finality and bravery and bold bold bold fearlessness coursing through her, **_the greatest loves of all time are over now._ **

* * *

“I think I’m gonna meet him,” Devi says, listening to Eleanor’s heady, dramatic sigh on the other end of the phone. 

“I do not support your backsliding, but I do support you as a friend.” 

“Hey!” Devi huffs, stomping her foot, just to see how it feels. “I was nice to you when you almost joined that cult.” 

“But you didn’t _approve—”_

“Of _course_ I didn’t approve, it was a freaking cult, Eleanor,” Devi says back, runs a hand through her hair, and turns the phone on speaker, setting it down on the dresser so she can pace, “and I’m not backsliding. I’m meeting him for coffee, and I’m gonna give him all his stuff back.” 

“You haven’t given him his stuff yet?” Eleanor asks, then clicks her tongue, motherly. “Oh, Devi… you’re the smartest idiot I know.” 

“What does _that_ mean?” 

“Just that _usually,_ people give their ex’s stuff back to them sooner,” Eleanor says, and Devi can picture her shrugging, a light attempt at backpedaling, “I mean, your pace is fine, seriously, it just felt right to call you a smart idiot.” 

Devi scoffs, more amused than hurt. “Thank you, Eleanor. I mean, at least you didn’t hit me, like Fabiola.” 

“You should be happy that she didn’t program a robot to shoot lasers at you, or something,” Eleanor tells her, and Devi laughs, bubbling up from her chest, “you laugh, but she told me she has been considering giving Gears Brosnan a laser attachment.” 

“Geard would develop sentience before he would ever shoot lasers at me,” Devi argues, “I’m his favourite.” 

“I’m your dreams, Vishwakumar,” Eleanor tells her, laughing and popping her lips, like she has just put on lipstick. “Listen, I have to go— theatre matters to attend to, and all— but we _will_ discuss this coffee shop development. Don’t even try to wriggle your way out of it.” 

“I won’t, Eleanor, I promise,” Devi says, picking her phone back up, tapping her nails against the case, “love you, Laalaa.” 

“Call me that _stupid_ Teletubbies nickname again, and I’ll kill you. I mean it. I will.” 

“Yeah, yeah,” Devi says, and hangs up, slipping her phone in her pocket and pulling open the drawer with the letter. 

A crumpled up post-it note is sitting on top of it, and Devi’s heart lurches. 

She knows what it will say before she even begins to flatten it out, smoothing her thumbs over the creases, the angular dips in the paper, and studying the precision of her handwriting. She has always hated it, found it impersonal and sterile, the letters too uniform to be organic, but Paxton had liked it. Had let her write up his planners and had relished in her grocery lists, scraps of domesticity held down but thumbtacks of hope. 

**_It would’ve been fun if you would’ve been the one,_ **it reads, like an unread love poem, a tattoo on skin best left undiscovered. 

She folds it, and slips it into the envelope. 

* * *

She is **persisting, resisting the temptation to ask him if one thing had been different—**

_— What if we still danced in the kitchen? What if we painted our living room walls bright yellow? What if we shared French Fry orders and carousel rides and seven years of sunsets what if we started trading secrets instead of silence—_

**— Would everything be different today?**

* * *

“Thank you, Devi, seriously,” he says again, fingertips worrying at the edge of the cardboard sleeve around his coffee. The high school swim team he coaches must have lost out of the season early, because he never drinks coffee when he coaches. 

He had wanted to go to the Olympics, for real, when they had first started dating. She knew he could do it, knew he would be able to get there, until he tore the rotator cuff in his left arm halfway through the season in his senior year of high school. 

It was like watching the ground fall out from under him, watching him grapple for a foothold, and seeing him benched every meet. He was lucky, really, that he did not lose his scholarship. But everything else— every Olympic gold medal he has ever hoped to hold on a podium— evaporated like mist. 

He went to college to be a physical therapist and switched his majour to general education— _“plot twist if I’ve ever heard one, H-Y,”_ she can remember saying, pushing his shoulder gently— and now he teaches health at a high school. Coaches the swim team. Devi thinks, just a little bit, that he is one self help book away from joining a congregation. 

He is still the same, though, chlorine and curls, sun bleached Converse with the soles busting out at the fronts. He still smells like drug store cologne. 

“It just gives me more space in my closet for chunky tennis shoes,” Devi says, falsely self assured, like this is easier than it is. Like this is easy at all. 

“You do have an unhealthy obsession with shoes that look like they belong to Bratz dolls,” he jokes, and rubs a hand down the back of his neck. **“We were something, don’t you think so?”**

It sends shivers down her spine. An echo of words scribbled on college ruled paper, ink bleeding through to the other side, and suddenly, everything clicks into place. 

She will be okay without him.

“There’s a letter for you,” she blurts, then points at the box at his feet, toeing at it with her shoe, “in with your stuff, it just… felt right, to write it. To process.” 

He chuckles, softly, in the back of his throat. She used to trace the line of his silhouette with her fingers, from the circle of his collar bone to his hairline, trailing the path his laughter takes up from his chest. “Can I read it?” he asks, tentative, as if there are eggshells to be walked on. 

“Yeah, I mean, it is for you, so…” she hates that she does not know how to talk to him anymore. 

He smiles, with one corner of his mouth, and pushes the box open, pulling the letter from it and flicking the envelope open with one hand, sliding the letter out. He rolls the post-it note around his index finger, biting into his skin. It feels wrong, suddenly, to stand here as his eyes scan the page, but she cannot move, cannot make herself leave the coffee shop. 

“Wow,” he says, finally, letting his eyes flicker up to lock with hers, “I’m… I‘m sorry, Devi. That we didn’t work.” 

“No, it’s—” she breaks off, sighing heavily and pulling a hand through her hair, “it’s okay, I just put too much on you. Instead of on myself.” 

“And I didn’t want to grow up,” he says, letting out a breath, “you grew up, and you did amazing— you’re still doing amazing— but I didn’t know how to keep up, and I didn’t want to, it just… we weren’t right for each other.” 

“I know,” Devi says, “it just… **it would’ve been sweet if it could’ve been me.”**

He chuckles, melancholic bittersweetness, and scrubs a hand over his face. “Yeah,” he agrees, smiles, for real, **“it would’ve been fun if you would’ve been the one.”** An echo come to life of the words written on the post-it note tucked into the envelope. 

“Keep in touch, okay, Big P?” she asks, just feel lighter, just to know that they can still be friends. 

“I will, Little D.” 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you SO much for reading! Please leave a kudos if you enjoy and a comment if you really enjoyed, they make my cat respect me. All my love <3


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